Mangroves
by shezwriter
Summary: Two months ago, squib and photographer Albus Potter, along with friends, was invited aboard the Ekrizdis, a ship hauling the world's most dangerous prisoners to Azkaban's new unplottable location. Now Al's pulled up on shore by an old woman, rattled, and is told that he's the sole survivor of the treacherous journey…and he can't remember WHAT HAPPENED.
1. Chapter 1

**TWO MONTHS LATER**

The instinct, he finds, not to breath underwater is so strong that for an amount of time it overcomes the agony of running out of air.

Instinct is the last thing he ever thought he'd rely on. It sounds manly and he wishes in that moment that he were manlier like Scorpius, the broad-shouldered idiot of an auror, who can't help but be a complete dickhole even at the best of times – or even Rose. Unspeakable Rosey Posey Rosey and the enviable charm she's always used to skate through life, he wagers, is more masculine than he. Rose Pose, smart and sly, who came along to protect her cousin – _not_ to keep her boyfriend company like she told the papers – because, _Merlin knows,_ Albus fucking Potter is a helpless squib who can't be trusted to do anything on his own. _she smells like seawater, and Rose smells like—_

If he were more masculine he could maybe swim fourteen or whatever miles there were left to shore. _Shore_. The word jabs against his chest, and he wonders it's a figment of fantasy, a mirage of all his time suffering aboard that goddamned ship or if maybe, just maybe, it is something that actually existed. Maybe the _Ekrizdis_ was on course for something besides ruin after all. Unlikely. Dad and Uncle Ron warned him against taking this job, said that the Captain wasn't to be trusted and after all, hadn't everyone been reluctant to reveal the destination to him?

Shame seeps through his thoughts, because taking this job will be remembered as the last, greatest act of stupidity of his life, and something in his brain, the same stupid something that doesn't care that he's underwater, triggers an involuntary breath. A _gasp_. As salty sea-wash shoots through the crevices of his teeth, finally engulfs his lungs, he has an image of people shaking their heads over his senseless death. While he has always prided himself on his ability to maintain his composure no matter how horrible the situation, to capture any moment in crisp, clear resolution and commit it to memory, save for study and dissection later. _this moment feels too hard to capture, it's_ _too brutal, it—_

Arms halt their frantic movements. His hips, sore from hysterical kicking, relax. And his memory. His memory is photographic, flawless, his skill with a Canon EOS 5D just as good but there's a sensation of darkness closing in from all sides now and his aperture is shutting down and the pain of drowning is, somehow, mixed with an odd incredulity that all of this is actually happening.

 _So this is drowning,_ he thinks, _who would've figured?_


	2. Chapter 2

THE BEGINNING: DAY 1

"Oi! No pictures while I'm talk— _Carpe retractum!_ "

The camera pulls from his hands at such velocity it takes him a moment to comprehend that it's gone. His head snaps towards the culprit, eyes narrowed.

 _Philippa._

Philippa's a guard. Standing a foot taller than the average bloke, she's built like a tank, with tight hair buns on sides of head that look as if they've been screwed on—they bear a striking resemblance to _horns_. Philippa was told to show him around the _Ekrizdis_ and has made it abundantly clear that she would rather be doing anything else.

Catching the delicate gadget by neck strap, she ignores his outraged ' _Oi!'_ as she tosses it in her bag. Spinning away, she storms down the cramped corridor, its sides lined with sharp metal hatches.

"Keep up," she barks.

Shoulders deflating, he drags his feet. Sweat prickles at his nape; the interior of the ship is stuffy and his mind can visualize microscopic drops forming on his small hairs like dew on a cobweb. He started the day well-groomed and looking professional, but stripping off more and more, the contagion heat's reduced him to an underwhelming grey wifebeater. Almost naked, he feels like a scrawny teenager.

"Pay attention, Potter – right now we're in the hull. The hull is the main body of the ship below the main outside deck. The main centerline structural part of the hull is the keel, which runs from the stem at the bow to the sternpost at the stern. The keel is the backbone of the—"

"Yes, yes, I don't need the beginner's shtick," he grumbles, slicking a hand through his damp hair. "I know the ship's anatomy – I read that little pamphlet I was sent." Not read so much as glanced through and burned a picture into his brain—but of course, someone like Philippa doesn't need to know that.

"Good on you, you can read," she drones. "Your father must be so damned proud. Speaking of, how is the _Head_ _Auror_ these day?"

His tongue swallows itself.

There's a bounce in her walk now that she's cut him down. "The ship consists of six decks lettered A through F including the main outside Deck," she continues. "You'll be staying on Deck E with the cleaning staff. Deck D is for guards, aurors and any _real_ professionals that may be coming along – and of course, the Captain. All other decks, except for the main outside deck, are strictly off-limits to you."

"Where will the prisoners be kept?" he asks, making sure to sound off-handed.

"Deck F… _You'll_ have no business going there."

As they reach the end of the corridor, she halts so sharply he goes plummeting forward—next thing he knows, his face is buried against her back, nose getting a whiff of a faint chemical odor. Her head turns, just as he's shuffling backwards from embarrassment, and for five menacing seconds all she does is stare. The mole under her right eye twitches.

"Try that again," she snaps.

He coughs: "No thanks."

Only after that awkward, unsavory moment's diffused into the congested air, does he notice the circular watertight door in front, vaulted down with metal. He stands balancing on heels, fingers tucked in trouser pockets to keep from doing anything else stupid, while she shifts around in her robes.

"These doors provide thoroughfares between compartments," she says. "They can be closed three ways in case of an emergency. The first way is by the right key—" She whips out a silver one, and with two echoing clicks, swings the hatch open. They climb through. "The second way is a switch the Captain has on the bridge that trips all doors at the same time. The third way… there's a float mechanism located beneath the floor so that if a compartment is flooded, incoming water triggers the mechanism and the doors shut."

He makes a throat clearing noise. "So what are the chances of… _that_ happening?"

"Fairly low. Most leaks and breaks can normally be fixed by magic – well, by the lot of us who can actually _do_ magic."

Trotting along Philippa twirls her keychain, snickering at her jibe like she's the first one to come up with it. She must realize he's heard a variant of the line everywhere he's gone. Social gatherings, job interviews, _dates_. He's seen harrowing disappointment crawl over people's faces, their eyes wide, when he tells them – they look at him like he's had his balls chopped off.

X

When the tour ends Philippa begrudgingly returns his camera, heading off to her quarters, while he climbs back up to the main deck. At half-past seven, the rest of the crew shuffles in, and the ship becomes an actual bustling microcosm. Sails are high and incessantly flapping against the cold winter wind. The anchor shudders, there are other sounds, grunts, groans, guards bellowing orders, salty spray hitting the hull, the caw of seagulls, the slap of the—

Limbs stretching exhaustedly over railing, Albus exhales a cloud of cigarette smoke. Up above, in the same way, exhaust releases from the ship's magical funnel, thick smoggy puffs rising in the air, polluting the already-bleak skyline. On land below, near the hanging torchlights, the last batch of inmates are being marched from the port onto the ship.

On the other end of the port he spots Rose, having just arrived. Her hand is linked to a blond bloke in a tight, black coat buttoned to the neck, surrounded by reporters — Malfoy. According to Hugo, he's the twat she got with during her last year of school. Al hasn't seen Rose in the past five years.

He wastes no time snipering his lens onto them, zooming enough for the three blemishes on Malfoy's forehead to sprawl the entire view. Disgusted, he quickly pans out. Uncomfortable-looking bloke, he assesses. Pale like a corpse. Nose tilted snobbishly in the air. Not near as photogenic as Rose's usual shallow pick but he's well-built. Fantastic at magic, likely. Rose prioritizes fitness and talent in her boys.

And then – do his eyes deceive him?

Sickly sweat beads on Malfoy's stiff upper lip, and the corpse-like complexion's patching with unsavory green. Bloke looks like he's ready to keel over and he's not even on the ship yet.

He adjusts his aperture, snapping the shutter again and again.

"A bit voyeuristic, no?" says a voice.

"All photography's voyeuristic," he replies without looking up.

"I suppose it can be forgiven. The red head is very cute."

 _Ugh._ "If you say so."

A chuckle. "I take it you're the photographer I hired, then?"

Focus snapping, his ears prop up. He tears his gaze away from his camera, looking at the grizzly-bearded man leant against the railing beside him, a wry grin on face.

Straightening to an effect, Albus sticks out his hand. "Yes, sir," he says, rearranging his own features into a pleasant smile. "Name's Al. How do you do?"

The Captain gives him one look over, doesn't comment on the purposeful exclusion of the last name, and shakes his hand vigorously. "Smart, well-dressed young lad," he remarks, agreeably. "Londoner, right?" He nods. "Don't get a lot of your type for these sort of jobs. Wager you've had a chance to look around my luvvie – what do you make of it?"

Even after all the Ministry-mandated renovations made on the centuries old ship, exchanging filth-infested wood boards for dull metal, clearing out cobwebbed corners, and building quarters actually sustainable for life, there is nothing beautiful about the _Ekrizdis_ – not even esoterically – but he doesn't tell the Captain this.

"I think the renovations have done the ship a lot good," he says. "Pictures will likely sell a lot of copies for the _Prophet_ – which, I imagine, will help with the publicity…and funding."

The Captain grins a relieved grin. "That's good to hear. I—"

Several noises ring, turning their heads. Mast creaks, feet thump precariously against the deck, chains jangling as prisoners cross in a uniform line. They all look gaunt, dirtied, dead-eyed.

Albus stares as a particularly large body passes, the only one flanked by multiple hooded guards. A vicious-looking man with matted grey hair and whiskers, his mouth set in an snarl. Beady eyes flitting in all directions, a low growling emanates from him.

"Fenrir Greyback hasn't seen so many living bodies in years," the Captain whispers. "We'll be keeping him in his own air-tight compartment. Less interaction he has with others, the better."

A pair of brothers pass along second: Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange. Their strides are similar. Greying heads ducked, their eyes are trained on the ground, away from the spectators—although they make no noise, their bodily arrangement nearly looks as if they are conspiring.

The next prisoner is tall and muscular, with a thin, grey moustache. His strides are large and powerful. One of his eyes is covered with a patch, which is surrounded by a diseased blackness that covers half his face. On his forearm, Al spots, a faded shadow – the Dark Mark.

"Walden McNair," The Captain whispers. "Lifetime sentence. Bit too fond of killing things—really liked the axe, from what I hear."

Albus nods silently.

 _"Hem hem."_

All heads on deck turn to watch as an old woman, with her head raised high, trots along in tiny, dainty steps: Dolores Umbridge. She looks out of place among the others. Dressed in rags, dark hollows are stretched out on her gaunt face—yet she shuffles about as though she's taking a stroll through a park.

For the breath of a second, their eyes meet.

There's the faintest flash in hers, and they narrow. Recognition? _Assessment._ Something inside his chest stops. He sees it happen in slow motion, the side of her mouth curling: a sneer, open barely, slowly, just enough so that he can make out the word.

 _Potter_

Feeling queasy for the most unimaginable reason, he looks away. He trains his eyes on the last prisoner.

Barty Crouch Junior.

He is gaunt, fidgeting against the guards' grips as they haul him violently along. His face is ashen, _skeletal_ , eyes darting from side to side like that of a psychiatric patient, tongue wagging out of his mouth. "Fun, fun, fun!" he shrieks lewdly. "Let's all have a _wunnnnnderful_ trip!"

His cackling fades as he's dragged below deck into darkness.

It isn't until a hand claps his shoulder that Albus realizes how long he's been standing frozen, brow furrowed, staring at the floorboards.

"Everything alright, lad?"

Clearing his head, he turns and nods.

The Captain smiles.

X

Partly from the glory of the moment and partly because of the pressing need for diversion, he takes several vindictive shots of Rose's boyfriend at the worst possible angle: his torso bent over, flaxen head ducked— face contorted as streams of vomit trail from mouth. Retching noises echo across the port, even up to the ship. It is entertaining to see just how much Malfoy likes bending over.

Several minutes pass, before it happens:

Rose breaks conversation with one of the reporters and looks in his direction. Their eyes lock.

A grin flashes across her face. "Al!" She waves excitedly.

Fumbling to shove his camera out of sight, he rearranges his posture. Gazing elsewhere, he angles his head aloofly to the side.

"Albus, you prat! Over here!"

He takes a long drag of his cig, determinedly ignoring her.

"I can't believe you still haven't kicked that habit, you poser! What are you, sixteen?"

Only Rose would attempt to reconcile five years of no contact with such affectionate name calling. Annoyance blankets over any nostalgia he might've felt. He's always wondered what it is about her that he riles his temper so much but still hasn't found the root. She looks the same as ever, neat angles and soft curves, dressed up in a long woolen skirt and a casual sweater top. Her hair has gotten longer, he notes, but it's still the same obnoxious red color as the rest of their clan. All his quiet resentment surfaces, for her, for his every stupidly talented person in his family, for the _stupidest_ person in his family (James), for newly-minted stupid person Malfoy, and so on.

"I'm coming up!" she warns, making her way through throngs of reporters, dragging her flustered-looking boyfriend by the arm. "That cig better be out by the time I get there, Potter!"

His fingers curl around the rail as she appears on the deck– sweat breaks in his palms. One wild dash later, her arms are clasped around his neck, and her lips press against his cheek, in what he supposes is an apology. He swings a reluctant arm around her: she smells of mint and seawater. At once, everything about her feels offensive, her voice, her smell, her way of apologizing, the uniformity of her demeanor; how she looks elegant, comfortable, happy, oblivious. How he wrote to her several times— _long_ letters— and she never responded. Why does she have to be here?

Mid-embrace, she tries to wrestle the cig from his grip. Lips imprint one more kiss on his cheek just as he's pulling away. He wipes the lipstick with his palm and looks over at Malfoy, who's standing behind them, nose pointed to the air like he's smelt something foul.

Popping his cig back in his mouth, Al steps over. "Everything alright, mate?" He sticks out the perfunctory hand.

The blond gives him one look over, scowling as through he can smell a squib. He shakes the hand in a dull, let's-get-this-over-with way. "Fine," he mutters, glancing around. "Where's the Captain? Want to introduce myself properly, but I haven't a clue what he looks like."

"You just missed him. Said he had to go see to the prisoners."

Malfoy cocks a brow over at Rose, who leans with her arms outstretched against the rail, busy taking in the view. Her hair blows softly in the breeze. Without shifting her eyes, she gives an odd little shrug.

"What's he like, Al?" she says, without preamble.

He turns to her. "Dunno," he admits. "He seems ok, I guess. Bit of a pervert though."

"Gross," she sniffs.

Malfoy belts out a laugh that turns into an alarming gurgling noise. Eyes widening, he dashes toward the rail, ducking his head to throw up again.

Moments later the hazy head lifts; Malfoy wipes drool off his chin, and saunters away, grumbling under his breath about needing to go lie down.

"I'll bring you some Pepper-Up potion later, love!" Rose calls but doesn't go chasing after her boyfriend. Instead, she climbs onto the railing, shivering in her clothes, and huddles up against _his_ shoulder.

He glances at her, the corners of his mouth twitching.

"Stop it, Al."

"Stop what?"

" _Thinking_ it."

"An accomplished legilimens, are you?"

"It's not Scorp's fault he has a sensitive stomach," she finally protests out loud. He bursts out laughing.

"I see you haven't changed." She ruffles his hair aggressively, ducking his head against the rail in punishment. He chuckles heatedly against her grip. "Still a jerk."

There's a strange lilt in the way she says _jerk_ —she's still ruffling his hair but her fingers move slower, gentler now, nearly massaging. His eyelids flutter close. Like a dog. The fact that he's enjoying this brings the faintest sinking feeling in his stomach and he shakes her hand away.

"So why are you here?" He looks up, askance. "Is the Ministry not keeping you busy enough?"

"They keep me plenty busy."

"Aren't you supposed to be solving the mysteries of time and space? Or uncovering some super-secret threat to the government?" He can't help the sardonic tone his voice takes.

Unspeakables are the wizarding equivalent of Secret Intelligence Agents, and though they aren't supposed to talk about it, he knows that Rose's work is equal parts research and investigation: the single most interesting job in the wizarding world, and more interesting than anything the muggle world has to offer. No doubt he's jealous of her— she's exactly who he's always wanted to be, only with female chromosomes.

Swinging her long legs back and forth, she inclines her head back. "I'm on vacation," she says flippantly. "Scorp applied as a guard. So I decided to take my two months leave and keep him company."

He raises a dull brow. "Seriously?"

"Seriously, Al."

He lights another cig. "A two month voyage with Azkaban prisoners to some obscure location in the Atlantic – it's hardly romantic, you know," he scoffs. "Definitely not what I'd do if I had two months off."

"Well, see, here's the thing dear cousin – sometimes when you _really_ _care_ about someone, you make the sacrifice to be with them."

Rolling his eyes, he takes a quiet, irritated drag.

"So… what about you? No girl to make sacrifices for?"

His hand gives her shoulder a good shove away. Giggling, she scoots back.

"Why not? You're cute enough for it." She reaches to pinch his cheek. "I mean, who could resist those _dimples_ —"

"Oi." He swats her off.

"Seriously, though, why not? Is it the squib thing? Or the confidence thing."

He glowers. "I haven't the time for it," he informs.

"Bollocks. You're just not trying."

"Haven't the money either."

"You don't need money to _fall in love_ , Al."

"Fuck off, alright? And anyway, it's different for blokes." Raising his camera, he snaps a photo of the glowing sunset though he already has hundreds similar. "There's always a lot to prove," he mutters. "Don't act like you'd give Malfoy a lick of your time if he wasn't an auror."

That does it. The space between her brows crinkles with hurt and her mouth opens to argue. But doesn't. It's because he's right, and even the perfect Rosey Posey can't refute that her own preferences are, and have always _been_ , centered on the aesthetic—money, status, looks, they've always played into her relationships. And why shouldn't they? They're no different than lighting and angles.

When his sunset picture comes out blurry, a scowl crosses his face.

"So, then, why are you here?" she asks.

"Why do you think?" He shifts the focal length, back and forth, back and forth, until he finds the sweet spot, and clicks the shutter. "I need the money."

"No you don't. Your mum and dad would be happy to –"

"No – I'm _twenty-four_ ," he interjects, "I need to work. I can't be relying on handouts from my parents."

Rose sniffs, turning her head, and he's glad she doesn't talk after that. Her advice would sting. Her consolations would feel quietly belittling. It's a small comfort to know that he'd never have gotten a job aboard the _Ekrizdis_ without some measure of competence. Although, even now, a latent part of him wonders why he'd been hired at all. Not from a lack of confidence—well, maybe a little, but also because the criteria for his acceptance had been _odd_.

X

 _"Mr. Potter, what's the first thing that comes to your mind when you think of Azkaban?"_

 _War. Dark Magic. Evil_

 _"Outdated design structure, mainly," he murmurs, busy sketching a rough design on a napkin. "I think for a prison celebrated as being impossible to break out of, it's failed to live up to its name. Add in the fact that the dementors are now gone—" He holds the sketch up, a giant X slashing through the building. "It's still costing the government millions of galleons to sustain."_

 _His interviewer gives a half-way humored smile._

 _"Good answer. That is, of course, the reason we are having it relocated to a remote location across the Atlantic. We want to make it harder to find, harder to escape from— worth its money, so to speak." Folding his hands, the man leans forward._ _"So, tell me, do you have any personal connections to the prisoners that will be on this trip?"_

 _"None whatsoever."_

 _"What about your father? You know he's responsible for half of Azkaban's detainees."_

 _"I'm not my father," he answers automatically, then pauses. "Why are you asking me this?"_

 _"We just want to ensure none of the invitees on this trip harbor any personal feelings towards the prisoners," the interviewer replies, genially. "Two months on ship with no outside contact can bear strenuous psychological repercussions. You will have to endure a lot of time in the company of these people. This is an important and costly expedition. Naturally, you may imagine, we want to avoid there being any…accidents."_

 _"Accidents?"_

 _"And there are portions of the Atlantic – we call them dead zones – where it's impossible to use magic. Wands won't work. If anything happens, they will be the most troublesome for the crew to navigate."_

 _"That won't trouble me," he says._

 _One eyebrow cocked, the interviewer flips through his file, "I'll say, you're the oddest applicant we've seen so far. You never went to Hogwarts, did you? You went to muggle school and Cambridge…how did you like it?"_

 _"It was something to do."_

 _"So you didn't," the interviewer chuckles, scribbling something down._

 _He bites his lip, keeping something at bay, though he isn't sure what. "Obviously, if I'd gotten the chance to go to Hogwarts, I would have," he confesses. "There's no comparison."_

 _"I see. Now one last thing, Mr. Potter, just why is it that you want to go on this expedition? Is this also, in your words, just 'something to do'?"_

 _X_

When the ship finally begins to move, he's alone. Shirtless, in his diminutive quarters, trying to bear the radiating heat of the stokehold. Supposedly the heat gets worse with every deck you go down; he's on Deck E, which means the only ones suffering more than him are Deck F: the prisoners.

Boiler steam wafts from the cracks in the door—the room's become a sauna. Certain that Philippa's assigned him here on purpose, he lies on the mattress with the sheets thrown off, nursing a cold bottle of firewhiskey against his chest. Sweat dampens his brow and he wipes it with his forearm.

There's an odd, cavernous rumbling that's too loud to be his stomach, a mechanical juddering.

The bed lurches and alcohol _sloshes_ all over his body.

 _How—_

Hazy eyes flutter open, and he finds himself staring at the dark stains – piss stains?— on the ceiling. They're the size of his palm. He blinks and they look bigger. Perplexed, he blinks twice and they've grown even bigger.

Drunken brain amused by this optical illusion, he paws for his camera, only to find the device out of his reach. Arm stretches further, trying to grab onto _something_ : no luck. His head turns, finally, annoyed.

Lungs deflate.

It's on the floor on the other side of the room.

 _Not possible._

He pinches his arm: still awake. Alarmed, he glances back up at the ceiling.

The piss stains have returned to their regular size.

 _A hallucination. A stupid, drunk hallucination._

Through the speakers installed in his room, the Captain's voice crackles: _Ladies and Gentlemen, we have officially set sail._ Crewmate applause echoes in the background.

He jolts as there's sudden obnoxious knocking at the door. "Albus!"

Slumping back in bed, he shuts his eyes, trying to ignore it. The knocking intensifies. He takes his sweet time lifting off his mattress, scratching his balls lazily, and saunters over.

Opening the door a crack, he greets, "Hello, cuz."

"Don't you _cuz_ me, you git. You're late and your stupid arse is making us late."

"Thanks a lot," chimes Malfoy from behind.

Albus rubs a weary eye. "Late? Late for what?"

"For dinner."

 _"There's dinner?"_

The two exchange an exasperated look.

"Knew it," Rose mutters.

"Of course he didn't get the memo!" Malfoy exclaims. "Look at where they've bloody got him staying–the ship's arse!" He tugs at his girlfriend's arm, whingeing, "C'mon, let's just go, I'm starved and it's not like they're expecting him….you can bring him back somethi—"

"Hold it." Rose sniffs the air. All of a sudden her face contorts. She turns to him, eyes sharp. "Have you been _drinking_?"

"Course not, Mum. You know I'm a good boy. Abstinent from girls, liquor—fun itself really."

A perfectly-shaped brow lifts.

He immediately regrets his words.

"Hold on, wait. Rose _sto_ — fucking hell I'm not _dressed—_ "

She dives under his arm, into the room, and groans at the immediate sight: Unpacked suitcases, trash scattered, dirtied socks lying about. He collapses back into bed in defeat as she draws her wand, casting a skillful array of spells that systemically organize everything; she throws a citrus-scented charm his way. Out of spite, he expects.

Malfoy trollops in too. "Even our house-elves have better accommodations than this, Potter," he laments, in what Albus assumes is meant to be sympathy.

Albus' only begun to reach for his firewhiskey bottle again when Rose chucks a linen shirt and black trousers at his face. "Put these on," she orders. "Go into the bathroom and freshen up. Give yourself a shave too or—actually, why don't I just come with and do it _for_ —"

He makes a quick dash into the bathroom before she can finish.

Locking the door behind him, he exhales in relief.

X

 **AN:** I can't really explain where I'm trying to go with this fic without just _going_ there. You're unraveling a mystery backwards and clues are imbedded in the text so you have to read carefully. It'll also go to some weird places so yeah, definitely rated M for a reason.

Thoughts so far? How's Albus as a MC? Let me know if you're interested and if it's worth continuing.


	3. Chapter 3

A fingernail taps his shoulder.

"Excuse me." A sheepish female voice. "Would you mind taking my picture?"

He turns around. Brunette, standard-issue Ministry robes, not much older than him.

"Sure thing."

She grips her waist with her hand, twists her hips, and strikes the same self-conscious pose all girls do— "Can you get my good side? Tell me if I look fat."

He gets down on one knee, clicking the shutter repeatedly. "You don't look fat," he replies in his usual absent tone.

 _Does my hair look ok? Does my face look chubby? Am I ugly – please tell me. Can you cut five kilos from my legs?_ It's always the same thing; endless dissatisfaction with reality, but more than that, it's searching for validation. Why anyone cares for _his_ validation is beyond him. He's a twenty-four year old, single bloke—what he finds attractive varies based on time of night and levels of alcohol consumption. Professionally, he isn't concerned with beauty at all. The point of a photographer is not to capture what is beautiful. It is to capture what is real and burn it into the memory of the world.

Rising to his feet, he strides over to stand beside her, clicking through the pictures. "What do you think?"

"They're really nice," she awes. She looks up at him. "You're bloody good at this."

"Thanks. I've been doing it for a while —Um,—"

"Evie."

He stares at the extension of a hand, and a smile that exudes more than just friendliness.

Hurriedly, he shakes the hand. "So which one are you, Guard or Auror?" he says, scanning to see who else is waiting for pictures.

She raises her chin a little. "Auror. Graduated last cycle, this is my first job."

Pulling his hand away, he runs it through his hair.

"Congratulations," he says, mustering a charming smile. "So I'll see you around—good to meet you Ev—

"Wait, how can I pick up my photographs?"

"I'll need a few days to develop them. I'll get them to you once I have," he assures.

"What's your name? Where can I find you?"

 _The ship's arse._ "Don't worry about it. I'll have someone get them to you."

Her smiles wanes a little but she doesn't say more. He shoulders his way through the crowd.

Among the one hundred highly qualified wizards in the banquet hall, he is a nobody. An invisible attendant, neither noticed nor shunned, able to flit between different types with seamless ease. People remember faces in pictures; they won't remember the face _behind_ the camera.

Most won't pick his surname from his face, which is lucky, because the few that _do_ act like Phillippa. She's among the congregated guards, by the fountains, and has been shooting vaguely antagonistic looks in his direction all evening, running pangs of anxiety down his spine. Tension grips him whenever he makes out snippets of conversation.

 _'_ _See there?_ _ **That's**_ _Potter's kid_."

Often followed by audible chuckles.

 _'_ _Not much to look at.'_

 _'_ _Pity he's a squib.'_

Someone tsks: _'_ _What a waste."_

 _'_ _What the hell is he doing here?'_

His heart sinks.

When two of the guards – _menacing, big-boned men_ – break from the group and make a beeline toward him, he shuffles toward an elderly couple and, swinging a casual arm around the pair, strolls to the other side of the room before getting lost in the crowds once more. There's no reason for a photographer to be noticed. The general lack of attention had been maddening when he was a teenager, stupid with hormones and desperate for friends, but over the years he's learned to appreciate his own wallpaper appeal. James and Lily and Rose and Hugo grew up in the scrutinizing public eye and are dogged by crazed stalkers and reporters to this day, but he isn't; Aware of the dangerous rate of suicide among squibs – _poor, troubled creatures who belong neither-here-nor-there_ – Dad made sure to shelter his middle child into obscurity.

 _Keep your head up, Albus. Don't let anyone harass you. You're better than that. You have nothing to prove, do you hear me?_

As a child these words are comforting to hear, even if they are blatant lies. Fact is— _everyone_ has something to prove. Society thrives on belligerent competition between the select few who rule the world and the billions who suffer the rest of it, in other words: the profoundly lucky—and everyone else. To opt out because of _unfairness_ is professional suicide. To hide from fear is cowardice. Even aboard this ship, a subconscious dick-measuring contest is underway. At the top of the food-chain are Aurors. With their Ministry rank to define them, and their magical prowess, and their own rather forced self-certainty— they've got no reason to interact with others. Guards do. They're the less-important aurors who've spent most of their careers offshore governing Azkaban but have clearly received little appreciation for it, and as a result, have developed an odd inferiority-complex. Their sense of importance comes from bullying interactions with _their_ subordinates; in this case, the ship mates. The ship mates are a young lot, a couple dozen unwashed blokes, with tanned bodies and charming boyish habits, who likely won't receive more than a few galleons a day for their labor. They admire the Aurors but aren't particularly enthused by the amount of time they'll be forced to spend with the guards. Their sanity is preserved through the sheer strength of their camaraderie. And alcohol.

Some offer him drinks as he squeezes through.

"There you are, lad!" A hairy forearm twists around his shoulders, startling him— it's Captain, pink-faced and jolly. "Glad to see you made it— have you tried the crabcakes yet? I'll tell you, they're _heaven on earth."_

"Not yet." He takes the fourth shot offered to him that evening and downs it. "Mhm!" The liquid burns his throat; he coughs into his sleeve.

"Good, innit?" Captain delivers a rough pat to his back. "Me own recipe. No better way to celebrate the _Ekrizdis'_ first sailing in over a hundred years—Am I right, lads?" Captain raises both arms in the air and the surrounding blokes burst out in _'_ _huzzahs!'_.

From the other end of the hall, guards shoot daggered stares.

"Captain," he tries over the ' _huzzahs!'_ and surrounding chatter. "Listen—um, I wanted to tell you—"

"Wha' is it?"

"I felt something odd when the ship started moving. Like a, um, feeling—" Sidestepping a broken bottle, he lowers his voice. "Like a feeling pulling me at the limbs."

Captain's thick brows furrow in confusion

"What do you mean, boy?"

He swallows a resigned sigh. "You know, I'm not really sure," he lies. "I guess it's nothing."

The perplexed look dissolves into a grin. "Well, that solves that then. C'mhere for a minute." He drags Al along the halls. "Get a picture of me with this ugly loon." He jabs his thumb at the large mural sprawling the wall behind them, the white-bearded sage— Ekrizdis.

"Who's that, boss?" Al arches a jokey brow. "Your grandad?"

"No, you smartarse. It's me great, great, great, _great_ grandad."

"Yeah? What's he famous for?"

"Ha. Ha. Very funny."

With a quick, smarting smirk, his face disappears behind his camera. The lighting in the dimly lit banquet hall is utter shit but may be salvageable with the right filter. Tungsten? No. Eventually he settles on a generic warming tone. "You know, not a lot of people know that Ekridiz built Azkaban," Captain says, while he rotates lenses. "The next generation won't even have heard of him. He's been removed from the curriculum at Hogwarts – can you imagine that?"

"A shame," he says, only half-listening between shutter clicks.

"It's because of all that damned controversy," Captain grumbles. "Wouldn't be a problem if people just left things the way they are."

Only recently did the Wizengamot deem it _inhumane_ to submit those who use dark magic to dementor torture. As a result, dementors have been removed, the Dreaded Azkaban Sentence has stopped inspiring dread, and crime has shot up tenfold. The Auror Department, naturally, isn't enthused by the additional work. And what's more: the name of the long-dead wizard Ekrizdis, who built Azkaban in its original form near five hundred years ago, is being blotted from history.

"Do you know the story behind why Azkaban can only be found using the _Ekrizdis?"_ Captain says. He shakes his head. "According to legend, me great, great, great, great grandad was _obsessed_ with me great, great, great, great grandmum. He was so obsessed that when he died he had his soul _transferred_ into this ship, and hers into the fortress of Azkaban—he wanted to be the only one who could find her."

With a blink, Al looks up. "You're kidding," he says.

"It may all be just a bunch of bollocks." Captain gives a twinkling smile. "But you never know."

X

"You've got to let this go, twat," Rose hisses, dragging him by the arm toward an isolated table in the back. "Honestly, Al. You're embarrassing yourself. No one but you felt anything strange."

"I'm not making it up," he mutters. "And don't call me a twat. _You're_ the twat."

"No, but you _were_ drunk, twat. You spilt alcohol all over yourself. You could've seen the Loch Ness monster when the ship started and I still wouldn't bat an eyelid."

"I think that just shows how little you understand me."

"Are you drunk again?" she accuses, albeit playfully, and tries to cup his face between her hands. With a cursory eye-roll, he shoves her hands away, and they descend into their seats to eat. They pick apart greasy portions of mackerel, while throwing fleeting glances over at Malfoy, who stands with the other aurors receiving assignments from the Captain. Malfoy wears a dull, bored look that doesn't ring entirely true. Because it takes a liar to know one—and because his left leg keeps shaking in anticipation of something.

Bulky shoulders hunched forward, forehead glazed with sweat— a look of deep annoyance crosses Malfoy's face.

"I bet he got assigned night duty," Rose mutters, cutting her fish into small, neat pieces. "Poor thing, now he'll never get any sleep. Wait, don't take his picture like— _Al!_ "

He wrangles his camera out of her grasp and snaps the pic. "Relax, cuz," he chuckles. "I'm doing you a favor, trust me. Memories for your wedding album."

"My _what?"_

"Your big, fat Malfoy wedding. You've been with him, what, five years now? I imagine it's coming up."

Her eyebrows raise, alarmed.

She stares down at her plate, for a moment, in deep thought. "And who told you it's been five years?" she says quietly.

"Hugo. Who else?"

"I didn't know you still wrote to my brother."

"Course I do. He sends back postcards with those awful kneazle jokes everyone else hates so much— why _wouldn't_ I write to him?"

While Albus was the family disappointment, Hugo was the _problem_ _child_. Rather than following in the footsteps of his cousins, he asked the Hat to exclusively put him in Hufflepuff ('it's time to give Hufflepuff a chance at being great!'). For every top mark Rose received, he went and landed himself in detention ('I've got to neutralize my sister's horrid behavior _somehow'_ ). When James became Head Boy, Hugo organized a revolt with the house-elves that resulted with the quidditch pitch in shambles ( _'_ _Viva la Hogwarts!'_ ). Hugo is the boisterous, offensive, _fun_ younger brother Albus has always secretly wanted.

Rose frowns.

"I thought you cut contact with everyone when you went off to university. You couldn't stand the lot of us, we were holding you back— at least, that's what Ginny said."

He'd broken his mum's heart when he said it, but he hadn't meant it. The truth was, at eighteen, no one was holding him back from anything; in a family as large as theirs, no one had particularly cared that he left. Perhaps, he simply would've liked to _feel_ that he was prevented from leaving, that he was needed. At first he had persuaded himself that he would remain another year for Hugo's sake, or to stay with Grandad Arthur in his fading health, or because it was his last sustained period before adulthood and he was determined to see it through. The thought of packing a suitcase and boarding a train to another muggle school didn't excite him; it left him feeling sick. Leaving for leaving's sake. But lingering there, surrounded by magic, was self-punishment tinged with humiliation that would surely have driven him out of his mind. And then there was Rose, who exasperated him with her endless talent and unwavering calm and crowds of admirers, and for numerous invisible reasons he did not wish to confront.

Fingers grip at his arm, snapping him from his thoughts.

Rose no longer looks angry with him. Her face holds a softer look. She tugs at his arm.

"Let's go outside. Will you share one of your muggle cigarettes with me?"

With a nod, he draws on his jacket, grabs his unfinished plate and side by side, they walk out the banquet hall to the railing on the main deck.

Finally alone, they stand silent for a while.

"Beautiful night," he murmurs through a sigh. "Never like this in the city."

She stares at him with amused suspicion. There is something between them, just as there's been since they were teenagers, and even he has to acknowledge that a tame remark about the sky sounds perverse.

"You never told me," she clears her throat. "How did university go, Al?"

"Boring."

"You shouldn't say so."

"You're right. Education is a privilege. I suppose I'm lucky."

"You are," she insists. "And Cambridge was lucky to have someone as brilliant as you."

He shifts away just as she reaches to touch his arm, and dumps his plate of muck into the ocean. She stares at him, brow crinkled in the way when she's unable to make sense of something. He can't help but feel morose. He lights a cigarette. It is, by now, obvious that she never bothered to open any of the letters he sent. Five years of static silence, not even a phone call on birthdays. The fact she's here now makes him want to drown himself in drink.

"Albus…"

Inching over, she unwinds the cigarette from his shivering fingers. Warming them between hers, she puts the same end in her mouth, and watches him with apologetic brown eyes. "I can't believe you've got me doing this again," she murmurs. He wishes she wouldn't mimic his bad habits, wishes that she'd just disappear, so that he wouldn't have to be reminded. He can't bear to look away from her lips as she takes a long drag.

Only then is Malfoy making his way outside, lost in his own thoughts, looking perpetually angry with the world. He halts in his step, seeing Al and Rose together, and his face pinches in vague, ugly suspicion. Shaking his head, he stomps over, forcibly squeezing into the space between them, standing taller than both. Taking the cigarette from his girlfriend's hand, he tosses it overboard.

Abruptly, he snaps: "Got assigned night duty for the next two months. Fuck me, right?"

"I knew it," Rose chuckles.

"S'not funny."

She strokes the back of his head. "Of course not. My poor baby."

Malfoy grips her waist and makes a big show of kissing her on the mouth.

Turning his body away, Al stares out at the ocean. "So," he clears his throat. "Did they give you a hundred keys?"

Malfoy pulls away and yanks them out. "One hundred forty-two, mate," he says coolly.

"Nice….are they _all_ of them?"

Something in Malfoy's eyes gleams.

A forceful arm draws around his shoulders. "Let's go for a walk, Potter."

X

"What's your problem, mate?" is the first thing he hears when they're alone. And it's not a joke, it's a snap.

Standing on the middle of the precarious wooden stairway between the two lowest decks, Al lifts his face to meet the sharp, predatory glare of the other bloke. In the dimness of torchlights, Malfoy's face looks paler than usual, nearly vampiric. The adornments that define the upper levels are lost and they stand in a shadowy, empty space; the only sound that can be heard is the mechanical clunking of ship parts.

"A problem?" Al replies, his voice casual, hands tucked into pockets. "I don't have a problem with you."

Malfoy's face morphs into one of disbelief.

"You just fucking around, then? Trying to get under my skin. Is that it?"

"Nah, mate."

The corners of Malfoy's mouth twist, and there's a sickly, gloating look about him.

With no one to see them, it happens quickly; what had been coming all along, from the moment Rose boarded the ship and ran to embrace him, from all the kissing and touching. Of course. He sees it clearly now. The idea was to humiliate him. There it stands, the undeniable fact. Humiliation. This is what Rose intends— _has always intended_ for him.

Malfoy storms down the stairway, delivering a harsh shove—Al's feet stagger as hands struggle to grip onto railing; leg catches between planks at a painful angle; chest slams against hard wood, neck turns so that his widened eyes are staring out the barrister into the emptiness of the hull—an abyss of waste and filth. The decaying chemical smell raises bile in the back of his throat. The air deflates from his lungs.

"You coming or what?" Malfoy's voice calls from somewhere. "Move it, Squibby."

Pulling onto his limbs with precarious balance, he rubs the back of his arms. Pain stretches down his thighs and knees. In a matter of seconds, the conflict's been settled; the raw, alpha-male fury of the blond quenched. The problem with Rose is not that she herself is detestable, but that she incites detestable feelings in _others_. Namely blokes. It is as impossible to hate her as it is easy to hate Malfoy, because he is of a type—bigshot auror: egotist, possessive, prone to violence. A touch gentler than her other blokes, actually. The bruises he's left aren't even permanent.

Keys jangle as Malfoy, at the bottom of the stairwell, unlocks the metallic hatch to Deck F and swings it open.

"Look at my hands, they're trembling." The blond gestures, back in his usual form. "You excited?"

Carefully trailing down, Al gives an impassive roll of the shoulders.

"Oh come off it, you're _dying_ to see the prisoners. Only bloody reason for anyone to come on this fucking trip."

"Is that why you're here?" he says, diverting the subject. "To see your great-uncles – the Lestrange brothers?"

Malfoy snorts, raising his lantern. "Nah, I've got no interest in some fucked-up family reunion," he murmurs off-handedly, trailing inside. "I hope to Merlin they all drown somehow. Crazed bastards. That'd solve everything, wouldn't it?"

"That's dark, Malfoy."

"What can I say? I have a lot of angst inside of me. Family history and shit."

"That must help with the girls, I bet."

Malfoy turns around and smirks proudly.

"You're a strange bloke, Pots," he says, shoving at his chest—this time, a friendly shove—before roping a muscular arm around his shoulders and dragging him along. "There's something inherently pathetic about you, but you're not half bad. I wager we could even be friends. Just stay on my good side, alright?"

Under his breath, Al counts his temper down from ten. His legs still ache from the fall but he'll be damned if Malfoy catches him limping. It's a shameful thing to do, to push someone, but it is more shameful to be the one who's pushed.

"So who do we want to see first, Squibby?"

No answer.

" _C'mon_ Pots, I'm letting you choose. Take the damn apology."

He pretends to think it over.

"Let's do…Walden McNair."

Malfoy grins. "Good choice, he's one of the dangerous ones. They keep him in solitary confinement."

At first darkness is widespread, but a small, dim opening soon becomes apparent. They draw on hoods to mask their faces, passing into the narrower hallway lined with cells. Luckily, most of the prisoners are huddled under a thin white sheet sound asleep, despite the overbearing heat. The stink of bodily excrement lingers in the air.

There's an echo of gurgles, an odd shifting noise, as though water's about to burst from pipes.

Malfoy stares, wide-eyed, just as perplexed as him.

Out of nowhere—a violent, vibrant lurch through the entire hull, sending them flying backwards. With a groan, he and Malfoy land on their bums, staring as the steel frame around them shifts, erratic shaking heightening as torchlights at sides flicker on and off. Waves and waves of something invisible hit against his face, and it feels as though he's accelerating through denser air— cosmic energy. His teeth grit, trying to brace against the harshness of it, and his hands try to press at his eyelids, only to find that his cuticles are stretching outwards. He stares in horror.

"You seeing this too right?" he says. "I'm not just imagining it."

Malfoy nods frantically, staring at his own elongating fingers.

It is just like that whatever is happening throttles up to full thrust, with the spine-tingling scream of the slipstream inside each of his living cells clearly audible. It is the feeling of immense power unleashed in barely controlled fury, the exhilarating sense of physical and mental stretching past the point of comfort. Long things on his body grow wide; Wide things grow long. The entire frame of reality shifts, up, left, right, and center.

And just like that, it stops. The one-thousand pressures attacking his body vanish. Everything returns to normal.

He and Malfoy sit there, panting, clutching at the ground dizzily.

Malfoy's head spins around. He squints into the dark.

"Say...where'd we come from, Potter?"

X

 **Confession:** So I don't think that this will be a story that most people will enjoy or even read. It's a niche, experimental concept and the writing style is chill and I'm taking lots of crazy liberties with characters. It's not nearly as ambitious as my other story Clash- which I'm busy turning into OF at the moment. To be frank, this fic is not going to polished work nor will it satiate your Cursed Child fanfic needs. Chapters will be short but frequent. I am mainly writing this to keep myself writing through exam prep and such. But if for whatever reason it _does_ spark your interest, do let me know because that'll keep me on it! No joke, reviews mean _everything._

For those interested, Al's character is based off the songs 'I'm Still Here' by John Rzeznik and 'Into the Ocean' by Blue October.


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